


Hungry

by Aris_Silverfin, FatlocknDomJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Demonic Possession, Feeding, Gen, M/M, Non-Con Feeding, Weight Gain, dark!fic, dark!john, demon!John, unhealthy eating habits, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/pseuds/Aris_Silverfin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlocknDomJohn/pseuds/FatlocknDomJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John starts acting different after a case.</p><p>Very different.</p><p>He claims to be hungry but refuses to eat a single bite, putting his attentions on Sherlock instead. He might not even be John anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Takeaway

**Author's Note:**

> Another dark fic from the fatlock fandom's premier horror writers!
> 
> Aris and I worked very hard on this one, our longest to date!
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

It had started after they'd arrived home from their most recent case.

Three men, all found dead from internal hemorrhaging, more specifically ruptured stomachs and intestines. He and John had tracked their suspect to a small flat in a rather bad part of London. The time was 2:14 a.m, and the hallways of the building echoed with a deafening silence. John had felt...odd, at least he'd said; the hair on the back of his neck bristling as the neared the floor's one, solitary light. Sherlock felt it too, but refused to say anything, determined to continue his adventure before Lestrade and his crew of idiots arrived.

The door to the flat was wide open, almost welcoming the two men to creep inside. Light poured from its kitchen, painfully, frighteningly bright as it illuminated the figure standing barefoot a few feet away from them.

It was Sherlock who first spoke. The detective wasn't sure what he'd said, or if he'd actually said anything, because when the figure turned toward them his blood had run cold.

The man was emaciated. Sharp ribs poked out of skin that seemed too small to be the man's own. A thick, black sludge poured from the man's mouth, and his arms bent in ways that should have been quite painful, but it was the man's eyes that truly horrified the curly-haired detective. They were wide open, so wide Sherlock could see every vein and pulse of blood that shot through them. The way they looked over Sherlock, detached but fascinated, cold yet furious, sunken and hollow but so, very-

They shot from Sherlock to John, and the detective watched his partner stiffen, knees and elbows locking rapidly enough to send loud pops through the kitchen.Then the man across from them, stopped trembling, his limbs... relaxed. And the next thing Sherlock knew, John had fired. Shot him right in the heart.

The man was dead by the time Lestrade arrived. Sherlock claimed he'd rushed them. Greg simply sighed, giving John's shoulder a small pat, saying he had done what he had to do. And John just smiled. Not his usual, sweet, John-ish smile.

This one was all teeth.

They caught a cab home. By all rights they ought to be exhausted. John shifted slightly in the back of the cab, feeling oddly feverish, unsettled, anxious somehow...

He glanced over at Sherlock to see how the other man was holding up. He looked fine really, a bit worn, _too thin_... as always but...

John’s stomach cramped and he doubled over with a soft groan.  


Sherlock’s movements were quick. He reached out to his partner, concern in his voice "Are you alright?" Stomach ache, it was obvious, but John had said it was "polite" to ask.

"I-I yeah, I'm alright," answered John, cautiously uncurling again. "I think I'm just… hungry. Christ, when was the last time we ate?"  


Sherlock chuckled, lightly, relieved. "We ate just an hour ago, Lestrade gave you a doughnut. Perhaps we'll order takeaway back at the flat." The detective gave a small smile.  


"Yeah. Yeah, let's do that," John agreed, then gave a dry chuckle. "Think there's anywhere that's still open?"  


Sherlock quirked his mouth a bit and said, "I think that Chinese place is 24 hours, I’ll give them a text." The detective took out his phone, punching in a few words, slowly.  


"Better get a bit extra, I'm famished," said John, snapping his head over to watch what Sherlock was doing.  


Sherlock jumped slightly at the movement. It wasn’t a casual lean, and the loud pop from John's neck echoed in the cab.

"I'll be sure too..." Sherlock murmured, typing in a slightly large order and paying online.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked, looking directly at John.  


John's eyes flicked up to Sherlock's not blinking, just gazing levelly, "Of course I am." Then he sank back. "Just tired... long case."  


Sherlock didn’t respond, just eyeing John as he too settled back, waiting for the ride to be over.  


At last it was. John got out slowly, every muscle feeling taught and strained, he cracked his neck again, then ambled up to the door and let them in, before going upstairs.

The kitchen was upstairs. He'd almost forgotten.

He made a beeline for the fridge, opened it, and stood staring into the white glow it cast on his face. They needed to go shopping, the shelves were rather empty. How could they neglect it like this? His tongue crept out to moisten his lips as his eyes slid from shelf to shelf.  


Sherlock was stunned for a moment, but merely chuckled, moving up the stairs after his partner.

"John," he called out, "I’m sure the food should be here so-" Sherlock stopped dead. The look in John's eye was...unsettling. So intensely focused on their mostly-empty fridge

"John?" he said, a little quieter. Perhaps John was simply hungry, or a bit too tired after their case.  


John drew in a sharp breath and looked up at Sherlock.

"Oh, right, sorry yeah. Just... we need to go shopping," he said with a chuckle. He shut the fridge's door and glanced around at the cabinets, then wandered back out to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. His stomach twinged again and he rubbed it idly. It felt surprisingly... had he lost weight?  


Sherlock chuckled in response. "We say that every day, and never do. We live off 'tea and takeaway,' isn’t that what you call it?" The detective smiled, finally feeling that "after-case" buzz. He settled down next to John, noting him rub at his stomach. He furrowed his brows, but then smiled.

"Looks like your diets working, eh?" he grinned, giving his friend's cuddly jumper a nudge.

"Yeah I suppose so!" said John with a huff of laughter, "Might ruin it with this takeaway though." He chuckled again, looking down at his middle, still rubbing at it distractedly.

"We ought to try to get a bit healthier though. Get some proper square meals. I worry about you sometimes," John added.

Sherlock just laughed again. "I eat, John. Just only when my transport truly needs it, unlike some people," Sherlock gave John's tummy a light poke, finding not the usual bit of softness lining the doctor's lower belly, instead just hard abs. He look puzzled for a moment, but then the doorbell rang.

"Your food," Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely and lazily at the door.

"Hm," said John, and he smiled, but somehow the usual humor was gone. He stood and went downstairs to collect the containers. The smell almost made him weak at the knees. His mouth watered, his head swam, his fingers trembled as he took the bags and slammed the door in the deliverer's face. He weighed the bags lightly in his hands, imagining the rice and mains that made up every ounce.

"Oh God..." he breathed.

He took the bags back upstairs and set them on the coffee table. Then he opened each, one by one, eyes growing wide as each steaming greasy caloric dish was revealed to him.

Sherlock noted the lack of humor, and watched as John moved back across the flat. His doctor was so...reverent with each dish, as if each one was his last. Sherlock reached for his own.

John's hand closed around Sherlock's wrist.

Sherlock gasped, both from the sudden move and the sudden pain. The doctor blinked, startled and looked up at the detective.

"I... sorry," John said, "Er, utensils. I forgot the utensils." He stood and vanished into the kitchen.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, rubbing at his lightly-bruised gently.

"John wha-" But then he was gone, disappearing out of sight so rapidly. Sherlock’s stomach didn’t growl, too in knots to even think of food.

John opened the fridge again, took stock of what they owned, then shut it again. He opened their cupboards methodically, then let them thud closed again. What had he come for? Oh yeah, Forks and knives. He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out two sets, then returned to the living room.

"Here you are," he said, handing over a set. He laid his own down beside his chicken and broccoli combo. He watched the orange sauce sink further and further into the fried rice below it, cooling and congealing in the air.

"Did we get dumplings?" John asked, still not taking a single bite.  


"I...I dont think so." Sherlock said, a small pit in his stomach. "What is _wrong_ with you today?" He said, knitting his brows together, hands crossing over his slim chest.

"Just eat your _bloody_ food or _fuck_ it, which you might do from the way you’ve been looking at it! I couldn’t care less either way!" he said with a huff.

“I'm _tired_ ," John snapped back, feeling heat creep up his neck, "And _hungry_!" He looked back at his food.

"Really hungry," he picked up the spring roll, feeling its crisp flaky crust under his fingers. He inhaled the slightly sickly fatty smell then inserted it into his mouth with a groan. It was unbelievably hot. Too hot to have a flavor, but he pressed his tongue against it regardless, sank his teeth into it and felt hot cabbage and pork scald the inside of his mouth. John only groaned in response, his eyes fluttering closed as he licked and sucked at it. Sherlock was completely forgotten in his ecstasy, his hand moved down to squeeze and rub at his flat hungry stomach.

Sherlock watched, jaw wide open as his flatmate tore at his small meal, seemingly unaware of everything around him.

"J-John," he said, nervously. This couldn’t be right, not at all. Even if John liked his food.  


Something wasn't right... it was going in, John was eating but...

His stomach gurgled and cramped again. It didn't taste right like it should... Actually it didn't _taste_ like anything.

"Do these seem a bit off to you?" John asked, picking up another egg roll and holding it out before Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock took a small nibble, tasting grease and fat and small flavors of pork on the edges.

"They taste _fine,_ John! Are you sick? You are not allowed to be sick," Sherlock said, reaching out to his flat mate's forehead. It felt quite hot. Sherlock leaned back.

"Maybe you are sick...come on, let's toss all this and get you to bed." Sherlock gave a small smile, happy to have that little mystery of Grumpy John was solved.

"But... but no! Think of! Sherlock, that's such a waste! Come on, you haven't eaten much, much less than me, we bought it we should eat it," John babbled, looking stricken. He proffered the eggroll again, hoping to entice Sherlock into another bite.

Sherlock looked a little taken aback, but settled on John being feverish.

"Then we'll...put it in the fridge for breakfast, or something. I don’t want any," the detective huffed.

"Any of it?" John echoed, looking deeply troubled. He turned to look at the glorious spread of full fat, full calorie, full _food_ before them. His stomach roiled again. He reached out to scoop up a bite of his chicken, but it seemed dry and tasteless on his tongue.

"Ugh, we're never ordering from them again," John declared grumpily.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, but then just sighed. "You’re just sick, so you can’t taste. Maybe just a little tea and toast, or something, you _do_ seem hungry." Sherlock twiddled his thumbs confusedly.

"Yeah... yeah okay," John said, drawing his knees up to his chest and peering at the food. He began sucking lightly on the back of his wrist.

"It doesn't taste right," he repeated quietly, "Why does it never taste right..."

"What doesnt? What do you mean never?" Sherlock said as he was about to stand.

 "Hm, what?" said John distractedly. He shook his head again. "I'm sorry. I'm really tired. I think I'm getting a headache... God, I hope it's not the flu." He pressed against his sinuses and sighed. "Maybe we should just pack it up and get to bed..."

“That's what I’ve been _saying_!" Sherlock said, throwing his hands into the air and grumbling.

"I'll leave it to you!" He called back, moving toward the ground-floor bedroom, muttering angrily to himself, suddenly exhausted by so much _idiocy._

Okay," John said, watching Sherlock go. Then he looked back at all the food on the table. He packed everything methodically and neatly, then distributed it evenly between the shelves in the refrigerator.

God, he was tired.

He wandered back over to the sofa and collapsed on top of it, curling into himself as his stomach churned. He slept fitfully.


	2. Full English

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's odd behavior continues and Sherlock starts to become quite concerned about his flatmate.

John might not have actually slept at all. The sun hadn't even risen when he gave up sleeping. John was ravenous. He felt like his stomach was about to dissolve. He groaned, whimpered, and then uncurled.

He was in front of the refrigerator before he knew what had happened. Then there were eggs frying next to thick bacon rashers, beans bubbling, toast toasting, tomatoes frying in sweet butter...

Yes that would do...

 

Sherlock woke up to the sound of sizzling and rubbed at his eyes sleepily. He wandered out into the living room, noting with some concern that John had curled up on the sofa instead of going to bed. He frowned and blinked confusedly at the light beaming from the kitchen. Sherlock stumbled in and let his mouth fall open.

The counter was lined with beans, fried tomatoes, eggs, toast. The smell of butter and bacon choked the air, grease thick in the detective's nostrils.

"John… what are yo-"

 

"Oh, morning!" John said cheerfully, "Just thought I'd whip up some breakfast." He gestured at the countertop. "Help yourself."

 

Sherlock sat, reaching for one of the small glasses of juice John had poured.

"This will do. You know I don't eat breakfast, John," the detective said, plainly, sipping at the fruity beverage.

 

John shoved the empty frying pan into the sink rather forcefully.

"So you don't eat dinner, you don't eat breakfast, when _do_ you eat, Sherlock?" he snapped sarcastically. He grabbed a thick slice of bacon and stuffed it into his own mouth. It scalded again, fat and slick, but there was no salt, no flavor! He swallowed and picked up another piece, crunching through it dully.

"Why won't you eat what I made for you?" he asked, his tone sounding desperately sad.

 

Sherlock jumped at the sound, then grew slightly scared when John shoved a clearly hot piece of bacon and jammed it into his own mouth.

"John!" he shouted, shocked, but then John seemed so wounded.

"John," he said again, with tenderness, "I don't like food. 'Not-Hungry,' that's me." He tried a small smile. "It isn't your fault, it's just...how I am."

 

John looked over at Sherlock.

"Really? Never..." he murmured, looking rather dreamy. Then he turned back to the immense spread of food in front of him and picked up toast. His hand squeezed at his stomach which was decidedly slim. "I always seem to be hungry."

He brought it to his lips and bit it once, then set it back down.

"Just have a little something," he begged, looking up at Sherlock, "Toast, or... or eggs. Just something."

 

"That's too-true" Sherlock chuckled, but his laughter stopped when John set his food back down, then frowned at John's begging.

"Why is this so important to you?" he prodded, his inner-detective getting the better of his love for his partner. Curiosity overwhelming feelings.

"Are you still sick? You look a bit pale," Sherlock finished his juice, setting the glass down.

 

"It's... it's just important," John said, drawing into himself again. He looked back at all the food. He wanted it. Every last bite. It belonged to him, he wanted to grow fat off the excess of it, fill his belly until it creaked and...

"Are you sure you don't want any?" John asked again.

 

"Yes I..." Sherlock trailed off. John suddenly looked so guarded, so small, "Hey, why don't we just... get you back to bed?" he asked, "It's clear you haven't slept."

 

"I'm not tired," John mumbled. He began packing up all the food, wrapping it neatly in plastic wrap or foil, watching all this beautiful food become hidden behind a veil to grow soggy and cold in the refrigerator. It made his stomach turn.

 

"You just don't look well, is all," Sherlock said, bluntly, watching his flatmate angrily pack up the large breakfast he had made. "A-at least there's food in the fridge, now." He tried to joke.

 

"Yes. there is," John agreed hollowly, "And it won't get BLOODY EATEN!"

He slammed the refrigerator shut and then pulled out the kitchen chair to sit in it. He groaned, pressing his forehead against the table top, his hands tugging at his hair.

 

Sherlock let out a small, startled cry at the outburst, his hand flitting in the air as John groaned against the counter.

"J-john," he said nervously. He'd never seen the doctor this way. Upset, yes, but this was so... different." Maybe something bland might help, you do seem a bit peckish." Sherlock stood, mustering his confidence, and started moving past John to prepare a cup of tea

 

"I am peckish... I'm so hungry," John groaned, "I could eat until I burst and it wouldn't be enough." He huffed and whimpered slightly. "Sherlock, I... I don't feel..."

 

"What? Don't feel what?" Sherlock added, heating up the kettle. The doctor's whimper worried him, he was always so...strong. So bold. So very, John. He moved to make a small bowl of plain oats.

 

"Hm? Oh, no. I'm fine," John said, straightening up a bit. "Is that for you?" he nodded at the bowl.

 

"John, just a moment ago you said you were starving." Sherlock said, placing the bowl in front of John.

"Please, just eat something and then you can go back to sle-"

In that moment that kettle went off, and Sherlock moved back to pour them each a cup

 

John snarled, but it was covered up by the kettle. He looked down at the bowl. Something bland... surely that couldn't... He lifted a spoonful on trembling fingers and tasted it. Then he let the spoon fall again. He practically howled.

 

Sherlock was just pouring the second cup when he heard a nearly blood-curdling sound come from behind him. He dropped the kettle, scalding water spilling out over the stove and on the white, clear face of the kitchen floor.

 

Something was very wrong, very very not right, very not good. It was as if half of John's mind was in a fever and the other half had just enough sense to make him realize that. He shivered, shuddered, then thought he was going to be sick and tore off to the bathroom. He crouched next to the seat, his abdominal muscles spasming as he dry heaved. Nothing would come out. He was so sure that if he just threw up he'd feel better, but he couldn't, so he curled up on the cold tiles and closed his eyes to keep the world from spinning.

 

Sherlock had followed after, calling out the doctor's name as he did. He watched the usually so rough body shake, listened to the revolting noise of almost-retching, and finally knelt in a panic by his best friend as John folded himself up on the floor.

"John?! John!? Oh, I'll, I'll call Lestrade! He'll take us to a hospital!" Sherlock moved to stand.

 

"No," John said, and his tone was surprisingly firm as he reached out and grasped Sherlock's forearm again. "Don't need the hospital. Don't need it."

His eyes fluttered open though he still looked clammy and as though he were having trouble focusing.

"I am fine," he said just as firmly, as if daring Sherlock to say otherwise. His grip tightened.

 

Sherlock felt fear. Small alarm bells went off as that soldier's voice bit into him. He took in a breath as finger's dug into his forearm. The detective fumbled for words, confused and slightly scared and otherwise completely lost as to what to do. He settled on a fact, something his brain could process.

"You're hurting me." Sherlock said, in a small, low voice, trying to look into John's faraway eyes.

 

"And you are hurting _me_ ," John growled in return, eyes still unblinking and glassy. He didn't take his eyes off Sherlock, even as he withdrew.

"I'm going to bed," he said hollowly, then wandered upstairs and shut the door. He laid down on top of his bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

 

"How-" But then John was gone. Sherlock collected himself, feeling lost and otherwise unsettled, and went back to his room. The detective shed his dressing gown and snuggled up into the warmth and safety of his covers. John was off today, and they had no cases, he could afford a few more hours of sleep.

Sherlock awoke a few hours later. The sun was warm, and overall it was a rather pleasant day in London. On days like this, the detective would've expected his blogger to offer a walk of some kind, perhaps go to a park and feed the ducks, but John just wandered down and sat in the living room, as if he was taking in the scenery.

Sherlock bustled about, experimenting with one thing or another. He loudly clamored with beakers and solutions, trying to bring a rise out of John. But the only thing that really happened was John ordered more take-away, ate one bite, and spit it out. He then offered the rest of the insanely large meal to Sherlock, and ended up wrapping the dishes up, angrily stuffing them into the fridge.

 

John then moved back to the sofa, settled down, and watched again, his cheery jumper and small smile not matching his unblinking eyes, which followed Sherlock around the flat without emotion.

 

At ten o'clock Sherlock finally felt a bit sleepy, or at least too unnerved to stay away any longer He bid John good night, moving back into his room and snuggling into his blankets once again.

 

John sat looking at the blank television for a while longer. Then he stood and switched off the lights. He went to go upstairs, then stopped and shuffled to the kitchen again. He opened the fridge, took stock, then checked the cupboards.

He then slowly walked down the hall, moving almost completely silently. He paused at the doorframe, listening to Sherlock's breaths through the tiny crack, then he slipped inside. He moved a couple of steps to his left, then turned and faced his sleeping flatmate, watching him without a shift in expression, hardly blinking if at all. He watched him, quietly. At times he scarcely seemed to breathe.

 

Sherlock rolled over, letting out small, pleased sounds, his legs kicking lightly under the sheets. Then, he suddenly felt as though he were being watched, eyes flying open to look into the dead eyes of his jumper-clad flat mate.

Sherlock made not a sound, simply swallowed heavily, staring back at John, breath held in his chest.

 

John only stared a moment longer, then turned slowly and walked back out of the room. He sat back down on the sofa and flicked the tv on, the sounds drifting down the hall.

 

Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest. For the rest of the night he sat there in bed, staring at the open door, listening to sounds of false, tv laughter.

 

John let the tv play. He only wandered up the hall once more, making sure Sherlock was still in bed. Then he smiled softly and shut the door with a creak.

He had shopping to do. He pulled on a coat and wandered down the stairs and out into the street.

 


	3. Leftovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to eat. John decides he should have more.

When John woke up, he was shivering outside of Tesco, barefoot, and deeply confused. He squinted at the sunlight, hugged his knees to him and tried to get a grip. He must have been feverish, sleepwalking, yeah...

He was shaking worse than ever now, a few passersby gave him concerned looks, all avoided him. He was so very... afraid. He sat and focused on breathing for a while. Then he felt a warm hand touch his shoulder.

"Hello, John, didn't peg you for the shopaholic type," came a warm jovial voice that he knew well.

"G-greg," John gasped with relief, looking up, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, let's get you back home."

A few minutes later, John tramped back up the stairs to the flat and let himself in. The tv was still on. He turned it off and collapsed on the sofa.

 

Sherlock awoke, hearing a noise on the stairs, then gathered his courage and peeked out of his room. He saw John stumble past and collapse onto the sofa

He moved silently, careful not to wake John, and moved into the kitchen, trying to find his mobile, hopefully to call...someone. John clearly wasn't alright.

He paused to pick up an apple, the first thing he'd eaten in nearly two days, and take a small bite. The crunch seemed to echo, but perhaps Sherlock was just being paranoid…

 

"Good boy," said John, having followed Sherlock as soon as his back was turned. His eyes fixed on the man's jaw as it moved. "Do you need more? I bet you do. You say it's all transport, but I can feel it..."

 

Sherlock let the apple fall from his hand. He could've sworn John was on the sofa just a second before. He looked about, in panic, for his phone, but saw it nowhere.

"Th-this is fine.," Sherlock said, swallowing the piece of apple and fumbling down for the fallen fruit. "John you...don't look well. Why don't we call up Lestrade and have him take us to the hospi-"

 

"I just saw him. He's busy," John said, rather tonelessly, stepping closer and closer to Sherlock. He grinned.

 

Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest as John stalked ever further towards him.

 

"You are. You're hungry," the doctor almost purred, bending down to be on eye level with Sherlock. He cocked his head.

"Come on. Come sit." He grabbed the taller man by the shoulder and steered him to a kitchen chair, then he tugged one of the cartons of Chinese from the refrigerator and popped it in the microwave.

"You just wait. There."

 

Sherlock had let himself be guided over, but his usual rebelliousness shot up,

"J-john! This is ridiculous!" The detective moved to stand.

 

John's hand was quite firmly on Sherlock's shoulder again in a split second.

"You can't keep lying to me you know," John murmured, staring at Sherlock before going to fetch the food from the microwave, he deposited it before Sherlock and stuck in a fork.

"You can't lie to yourself either. Eat."

 

Sherlock sat down again, swallowing hard. John had been across the kitchen just a moment ago...how?

 

Then the food was in front of him. Sherlock was, admittedly, a bit hungry, and he took a few stabs of the sweet chicken and vegetables. After he'd finished roughly half the carton he pushed it away, feeling contently full.

The detective gave a soft hiccup and said, "There, a nice lunch, what do you say we go out for a walk or-"

 

"No. More," John directed, watching Sherlock reverently. His breath stuttered as he watched Sherlock, push the carton from him. His eyes flicked down. He couldn't tell he'd eaten yet. He wasn't yet fed. He needed to feel it, needed to feel how warm he could get...

John shoved the carton back to Sherlock, staring at him pointedly. He cracked a smile. "Go on, for your good friend John."

 

Sherlock look puzzled at that. "John I'm full, as I've said, now please let's just-"

 

John laughed, quite coldly. "I don't think you heard me," he said, smiling. "Did you?"

His face suddenly became far too hard for a kind-hearted army doctor. "Finish it." he commanded, his hand moving to Sherlock's shoulder again, though closer to his neck this time.

 

The tone unnerved the detective, but the sudden shift truly frightened him. Sherlock nervously picked up the takeout box, watching John out of the corner of his eye, hyper-aware of the strong, rough hand on him. He slowly chewed through the rest of the box, his belly swelling outward, a taut dome stuffed full of food. His stomach churned angrily.

 

John watched, eyes following every chew and swallow. He ached as the other man ate and ate. Oh to be able to feel that again...

 

Sherlock set the box down with a small burp, and a light groan, his tummy aching from all he had consumed.

 

"Ah, that's loads better, isn't it?" John hummed happily, leaning in against Sherlock a bit to get a better look at the man's middle. He patted his flatmate's shoulder and moved away again. "It's a good start. I knew you got hungry."

 

Sherlock's stomach tightened. He'd eaten too much, and he knew it, especially after having not eaten for so long. The detective rose, moving toward the bathroom.

 

"Where are you going?" John asked, suddenly attentive once again and moving closer to intercept him. He cocked his head with a smile.

 

"I dont-" Sherlock covered his mouth, feeling hot bile bite at the back of his throat

"I've eaten too much John" Sherlock moved past the blogger, hurrying toward the bathroom a bit quicker now.

 

John seized Sherlock and slammed him hard against the nearest wall.

"Don't you dare," he said, still grinning. "Keep. It. Down. You can do that, can't you? A bit of Chinese. That's nothing. Nothing at all."

 

Sherlock gasped as he was thrown backwards, groaning as his overfilled tummy jostled with the movement.

"L-let me go, John! Please I-" Sherlock felt more of the acidy food burn his throat, tears brewing in his eyes.

 

"Swallow." John directed coldly, his hands firm on Sherlock's biceps. He was nearly close enough to feel that round bulge of belly. He could practically feel the warmth radiating from it... so... yes...

 

Sherlock fought the food back down, his stomach feeling like it was full of razorblades. The detective panted heavily, looking up in attempt to keep two, small tears from falling.

 

"Thank you... very much," John purred, leaning in just a little. Oh, how he wanted to touch, but then his prey might escape him.

Hang on. John blinked and stepped back, letting go of Sherlock again. He looked quite lost for a minute, squinting at Sherlock before his eyes became unfocused and he disappeared into the loo, locking the door behind him.

 

Sherlock breathed out a sigh of relief, but then doubled over in pain. His stomach was on fire, he'd never eaten so much in his life.

He tried to stand, but ended up simply crawling back to his nearby room and curling up on the floor.

What was the matter with John? Why did he...how could he have made Sherlock do something like that?

With these angry, confused, and slightly frightened thoughts in his head, Sherlock Holmes allowed himself a small, deserved nap. When he awoke he would find his phone and call Lestrade.

Everything would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John played by Aris_Silverfin
> 
> Sherlock played by FatlocknDomJohn


	4. Doughnuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to show interest in feeding up more than just his flatmate.

Sherlock awoke on the floor a few hours later. His head was pulsing with the beginnings of dull headache. His neck, stiff. The detective stood and stretched, arching his back, his abdominal muscles strangely tight and-

Oh, right.

Sherlock placed a hand on his now-flat midsection, the food having been digested quickly enough. Sherlock still felt a bit sick, but perhaps john was just over-excited about having him eat, he always was concerned over the detective's diet. John was simply... looking out for his own health.

Yes, that's all. And... and sleep walking is common with those that are ill. It had only been a day, everything was fine, Sherlock was sure. And yet, among these happy and blind thoughts, Sherlock couldn't remove the deep pit of fear that had settled in his stomach.

Snapping him out of his mini pep-talk was a rather loud chime - the detective's mobile. Sherlock wandered out into the kitchen, for some reason walking as quietly as he could. John appeared to still be upstairs, his blogger having run off... hours ago. Before swiping the text, Sherlock noted the time. Yes, Sherlock had napped after his... feast... for at least two hours, and in that time in seemed to be that John had yet to come back down to the ground floor.

The detective opened the text, and smiled wide.

He spun around, moving out of the kitchen slowly, strangely apprehensive about shouting - something he'd never felt before - but the curly-haired man put on a brave smile and boomed, "John! Grab your coat! Double homicide in-"

 

The door to John's bedroom upstairs burst open with a crash. Then it slammed shut again. There was a creak. Then the doctor's footsteps could be heard descending the steps methodically.

 

Sherlock jumped at the noise, his voice cutting off, losing a bit of confidence.

 

"Oh, a case?" John said, yawning and stretching. "Sorry, I must have dozed off. Where're we heading?" He still looked rather pale, his eyes a bit sunken. The jumper was a bit baggier than usual.

 

"Yes, a double homicide in..." The detective trailed off again, taking in the sight of his rapidly slimming flat mate, his blogger, his...everything.

"John have... have you eaten anything since we came home two days ago?" Sherlock asked then nearly chuckled. He was starting to sound like John.

 

"Hm? Oh I must have. We ordered Chinese, didn't we?" said John with a small chuckle, "And I made breakfast... Do you think we have any left? I feel-I'm a bit hungry I think. Aren't you?" The doctor peered up at his detective, a small smile cracking his lips without him realising it as he took in his flatmate.

 

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. His doctor's smile almost never failed to make his heart leap, but this smile was different.

"I… I- You didn't eat anything. I ate the Chinese, John, but you didn't. Don't you remember? It was a lot." Sherlock chuckled, nervously, "You said it tasted wrong. M-Maybe there's a bakery near the scene? But I'm not entirely sure you should be on your feet."

Sherlock felt torn. This was a fascinating case, for sure. One he would probably solve immediately, of course, but still interesting. John wasn't really in any condition to move though. He looked... thin. Sickly.

"Perhaps have a bit of something before we leave? I don't want you complaining on the case, that's my job," Sherlock tried joking.

 

John's gaze flicked back up to Sherlock's face, smile gone, just utterly passive. He stared for a little moment longer, then took in a long breath.

"Yes... Yeah a bakery. Let's go to a bakery," he said, his smile returning, though a bit more convincingly. John reached out and squeezed the detective's bicep. "Come on." Then he turned and went to collect his shoes.

 

"That isn't at all what I said!" The detective called back, with a huff, suddenly more frustrated that concerned with his seemingly loony partner. Fevers made people...well...feverish. Sherlock quickly sent a text out to Lestrade:

 _On our way, doughnuts?-SH_ /

Then the ridiculously slim man went off to change, but not before turning back to his flat mate.

"John," he called out, "I'll take a shower. Eat something before we go, alright?"

The detective moved to the washroom, stripping down. He briefly admired himself in the rapidly steaming mirror before venturing into the warm flow. Each rib able to counted, tracing down to a taut, concave tummy and sharp hipbone. A tiny, tight, nearly non-existent bottom. Sherlock grinned, proud of his form, before he hopped into the shower.

 

John didn't say anything, but he wandered to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and counted the number of plates and takeaway boxes. His mouth watered as he remembered each one hot and fresh. His stomach twisted, and he grunted before shutting the door again.

"It's not enough," John murmured, clutching his middle as he wandered to the cupboard and pulled down two boxes of pasta and the biggest pot he could find. As the water boiled, he lifted up his jumper, looking down at his stomach. It was verging on concave now in its emptiness, every warm soft bit of pudge being used to keep his body alive and repairing itself. John let out a low unhappy noise and then went back to stirring the pasta. Once it was cooked, he dumped in a stick of butter and half a container of parmasean cheese.

He set the pot on the table and rook his seat beside it. He stared at it for a moment, then looked in the direction of the hallway where he could hear Sherlock showering. He placed some pasta on his plate, then dumped it back into the pot. He smiled at his empty but greasy plate, then leaned back, eyes closing as he waited for Sherlock to return.

 

The detective nearly leapt down the stairs, incredibly excited over this new case

"Double homicide, apparently brother's both found dead in-" Sherlock stopped by the kitchen doorway, smiling at his seemingly contentedly-full friend.

"There," he said, voice full of warmth, "Now, don't you feel better?" Sherlock chuckled, he really did sound like John.

"Come on then!" Sherlock shouted, slipping his shoes on and hurrying down the stairs

 

"Hmm, yeah, loads better," said John, patting his stomach and throwing in a yawn for good measure. "Made a bit too much though. You should have some." His eyes flicked open and he watched Sherlock expectantly.

 

"There's no time!" Sherlock shouted back, impatiently, "Come on!"

 

John's face twisted into a truly horrible expression, all hatred and hunger, like a desperate and starving wild animal. His eyes seemed to darken within sunken sockets. He bared his teeth. "Fair enough. Maybe later," he said in a soft tone. He placed a lid on the pot, and hauled it to the refrigerator. Then he rejoined Sherlock's side, simply looking sleepy again.

"Right. Let's go then."

 

Sherlock went pale at the sight. John had...John was… He shook his head fiercely.

"Y-Yes! Off we go!" Sherlock replied with false cheeriness. There was a cab waiting outside, and he gently tugged the door open, slipping inside.

 

John followed after, sitting down and then turning his head to stare passively at Sherlock.

"Where to then?" He asked, still watching, hardly blinking. "Will Greg be there?"

 

Sherlock listed out the address, a slightly long drive away across London.

"I...assume so." Sherlock said, feeling rebellious, in turn staring back at John. "He _is_ at every crime scene we go to."

 

John gave Sherlock a long blink. Then he turned to face the front of the cab again, his posture perfectly straight.

"Good," was all he said.

 

Sherlock felt a chill over him, but simply turned to face front again, swallowing lightly. The rest of the cab ride was...quiet. Silent really. Just very low, soft breathing and Sherlock lightly squirming. He nearly flew out of the cab as they pulled up at the scene, rushing toward Greg's warm, smiling face, noting with some happiness he'd picked up the doughnuts Sherlock had asked.

 

"Ah, Sherlock! Good! I almost thought you weren't coming," said the detective inspector, turning towards the two of them. "Have to say, doughnuts were a brilliant idea." He took another cheerful bite from the one in his hand. John's eyes seemed magnetized to it as a smile spread over his own face.

 

"Yes. An excellent idea," John agreed, watching him reverently.

 

"Want one?" Greg offered politely.

 

"Oh, no thanks, I just ate," John chuckled in reply.

 

Sherlock solved the crime rather quickly, moving past the pleasantries entirely while he rattled off the answers to various clues left about the scene to those that would listen.

That group, strangely, did not include John, who was rather focused on...Greg.

Sherlock felt his blood boil looking over at his "not gay" flat mate shamelessly flirting with the inspector, who, Sherlock knew, was much too sweet to entirely notice.

Greg ate doughnut after doughnut, all the while smiling at _his_ John! The horrid pig! How could he-

Sherlock took a deep breath, and simply gave the rest of his facts to the officers nearby

 

Greg smiled and said something that made John laugh loudly. The doctor stepped a bit closer, putting a hand on Greg's shoulder and leaning in to him a bit. His eyes flicked to Sherlock for a second, then were back on Greg's powdered sugar stained lips.

 

"Oof, I think I need to sit down a bit," Greg huffed, collapsing back against his car and putting a hand on his middle. "Oh blimey, that's my diet ruined!"

 

John laughed and gave the man's belly a pat with a light, "Oh come off it, you're absolutely fine. You're great really. I've never seen anyone eat like that." He smiled and Greg snorted, looking rather content, if oblivious.

 

Sherlock fumed, insulting the nearest officer quite loudly before stomping off. How could John be encouraging that kind of... gluttony!? Flat-out, revolting eating habits! It was...it was-ARGH!

Of all the subtle hints Sherlock had dropped and John hadn't responded to, he flirts with _Gavin!?_ The fifty year old... something! Sherlock stomped over to where the two men were, grabbing at John's wrist.

"We're _leaving_ ," he snarled, then spat at Greg, "Case is solved. I hope you enjoyed your 4,000 calories _snack_." Sherlock made a beeline for a cab.

 

Greg spluttered, looking aghast. Even more so when he discovered that he had somehow emptied the box on his own. John allowed himself to be pulled along, enjoying his moment of triumph before putting on an exasperated air. "What's gotten into you all of a sudden, eh?"

 

Sherlock paused, turning to face John, looking heart broken.

"How… how could you-" Sherlock's lower lip quivered, and his jaw tightened, and he spun away from the doctor, letting go of his wrist like it burned.

 

"How could I what?" John asked, tilting his head and looking convincingly puzzled, "I was just having a chat."

 

"Of _course_ you were," Sherlock most certainly agreed, aggressively staring out the window of the cab, moving himself as far away from his- _Greg's-_ blogger as possible. The detective sniffled, lightly, his lip quivering once again.

 

"Oh... Hang on," John said slowly, almost cruelly, "You're jealous, aren't you? I never would have thought." John continued to give Sherlock a long unblinking look. He did his best to make it kind. "I'm... Sorry. He just looked so... Good. I couldn't help it."

 

"I most definitely am _not_!" Sherlock roared, spinning to face John, tears just about to spill over a completely red face. "It's not like you've been shouting 'Not Gay' to the bloody mountaintops every time someone even _thinks_ we're together! It's not like we spent almost every waking hour together, not like we take care of each other, or care _for_ each other!"

Sherlock's voice broke, a small sob echoing through the cab, which was gratefully coming up on Baker Street.

"And _of course_ the one time you actually, openly admit your sexual orientation, you flirt with a man, you _acknowledge_ something we've both been dancing around it's... it's for... Lestrade. It's for a man _stuffing_ himself bloated with _doughnuts_!" The cab pulled to a stop, and Sherlock hurled bills in the man's direction. "Well if you want to go out and _fuck_ some _hog_ , you bloody _fucking do so_!" Sherlock screamed, tears now streaming down the man's face.

There was a beat of silence, and Sherlock let out a desperate, deep sob. The curly-haired detective then leapt out of the cab, slamming the door behind him, hurrying up the stairs to 221B, furious at Lestrade, furious at John, furious at himself for caring.

 

John gave the cabbie a polite smile, then a wink before stepping out and entering the flat after Sherlock. He wondered if they had any ice cream... He wandered to the kitchen, checked the freezer, and found it empty.

"I'm going shopping," he called, then vanished again, going to Tesco. It was about time they got that fridge properly filled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock - FatlocknDomJohn
> 
> John and Lestrade - Aris


	5. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The demon learns how to play with dear Sherlock.

Sherlock stayed in his room for the next hour, alternating between sobbing quite violently and smashing anything he could get his hands on. His current victims were a lamp, three beakers, and stuffed dog John had joking won him at a fair. He viciously tore the beasts head off, then, as it lay there, smiling face and soft ears separate from its torso, Sherlock wept harder.

 

John returned, heaving his purchases up the stairs. He put each item away reverently, listening for any sign of movement. Then he began preparing a heroic ice cream sundae with every topping under the sun.

"Sherlock?" He said, coming to the door and making himself sound timid and shy, "can I come in? I... I need to talk to you."

 

"No!" Sherlock shouted, sitting cross legged on his bed, hugging tightly at the remains of his stuffed puppy.

 

"Sherlock... Please. I... It's important," said John, cracking his voice convincingly. "I've been a right bastard... I just. I'll just leave this here." He set the mountain of ice cream down and then returned to the living room, waiting. He wondered if the chocolate hearts were too over the top. But if this worked… he only needed a foot in the door.

 

Sherlock paused, still sniffling, and moved to the door. He'd leave...what would he leave? A present? John knew what Sherlock liked - acids, organs, small, cute animals (as he'd drunkenly admitted and swore John never to tell). Sherlock opened the door with a watery, hopefully smile.

It quickly fell.

Ice cream? ...Ice cream!?

Sherlock felt his blood boil.

Did John think him a _child_?! A whining infant to be bought with _treats_!?

Sherlock hefted the delicately prepared sundae in one hand, and sent it soaring down the hall, feeling pure delight at the sound of the fattening treat squelching and its glass container shattering against the wall. Sherlock slammed the door to his room shut, locking the door.

That had felt...satisfying.

 

John heard the crash, then walked over to find the smashed offering. Wasted. All of it wasted. He stood and stared at the door, not making a sound. Then he went and fetched a few things from his last bag of shopping, non-edible items, and then stood patiently watching Sherlock's door again.

His face turned ugly again. Then he smiled.

 

Sherlock napped, tossing and turning from stress and sadness, but eventually nature called. The detective rose, rubbing sleepy eyes, yawning lightly. He pulled his door open and waddled toward the bathroom.

 

John happened to be standing right behind Sherlock as the detective turned the light on. He didn't move a muscle, just stared at him through the mirror, face blank, hands behind his back.

 

Sherlock jumped, then scowled.

"Go away," he said, petulantly, staring at the figure in the mirror.

 

John did nothing.

Then he took a single step forward, closer to Sherlock.

 

"Get out!" Sherlock shouted, color rising to his face, "I don't want to see you!"

 

"That can be arranged," John replied, his mask cracking into a gleeful smile as he suddenly rushed forwards and bent Sherlock against the counter, one hand holding, Sherlock's behind his back, the other catching him by his hair and pulling back.

"You are an ungrateful little _shit_ ," John growled, all menace and teeth.

 

Sherlock let out a small, frightened noise, and then felt himself slammed forward.

"Ah!" the detective shouted, feeling the roots of his curly looks yanked back, tears stinging at his eyes once again.

"J-John! What are you doing?!" he shouted, struggling against the man's firm grip, then he looked into the mirror gain, seeing John's face. His blood ran cold. That was _not_ the happy face of his cuddly doctor. That was...that was something as far from John as it could be.

Sherlock struggled harder, "L-let me go! I said let me _go_! What is wrong with you?!"

 

"I'll let you go, when you've earned it," not-John hissed, "do you have any idea how _infuriating_ you are?" He snarled and pulled Sherlock's head back further. "So hungry, never eating, wasteful, spoiled!"

He twisted Sherlock's arms in warning, "You will do as I say."

 

"John, please, you're scaring m-" the detective let out a cry as his arm bent painfully

 

"Then we understand each other," John murmured, "You've treated me very poorly, turned your nose up at every kind gesture I've made. How could you?"

He let him go.

"Meet me in the kitchen after you're done here. Five minutes." Then he left the bathroom, and closed the door behind him.

 

Sherlock scrambled up as John let him go, confused and frightened

Then he felt anger.

 _He'd_ been rude to _John_?! Sherlock knew John was sick, and feverish, and had something clearly wrong with him, but the detective had been more than kind and patient with his flat mate. He pushed the startling faces John had...contorted...out of his mind. He relieved himself, washed his face, and headed back down the stairs toward his room.

 

John was blocking the way.

"I made you dinner," he said, smiling again, "Come and eat. Then I promise I won't be angry any longer."

 

Sherlock jumped, nearly walking straight into John, who he'd sworn wasnt there a moment before. How had he...

"You've no right to be angry." Sherlock pouted, letting himself be guided toward the kitchen, "You were...very not good today John." He said, in a much quieter voice.

 

"Didn't I?" John replied "Well, you're not so good at people things are you?" He guided Sherlock to a plate that was heavily laden with mashed potatoes, gravy, and pork chops.

 

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, sounding hurt, not noticing the food as he obediently sat down.

 

"Self-diagnosed sociopath, aren't you?" John said, "Forget to eat and sleep, unable to take other people's feelings into account…" He lifted the fork from the table and scooped up some mashed potato.

 

"I.." Sherlock trailed off. John knew better. John knew him. John... John cared. How could he keep saying these things to him? After all they'd gone through?

"I'm...tired." The detective said, quietly. "I just want to go to bed." But Sherlock made no move to rise, simply staring sadly at his bare feet, quite easy to see at this angle, no wide hips or soft tummy to block his view.

 

"Make it up to me first," John growled, "Show me you're sorry." He tipped up the man's chin and proffered the mashed potatoed fork to cupid's bow lips.

 

"I don't know what I'm sorry for," Sherlock said, deeply confused. Anger bubbled in him, shallow in his belly. "Why were...why were you flirting with Lestrade?" Sherlock pulled his head back.

"Why would you bring me ice cream?! Why don't you love _me_ John?!" Sherlock shouted, then flushed crimson. He stood, moving to bolt out of the room.

 

John's hand was on Sherlock's shoulder once again, squeezing hard and pushing him back into his seat. "I flirted, because I am unattached and I like a man with a good appetite. I brought you ice cream to try to make peace and care for you. I do love you. I worry about you. Let me take care of you. I will live you more when you stop being such a prat," John replied, staring at Sherlock. He blinked and looked away.

 

Sherlock settled in, again obediently

"You've never flirted with any _man_ before, John. You get scared, panicky, when anyone even hints at your bisexuality. You-"

"...You love me?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide, innocent, a faint flush crawling up his cheeks, "...really?"

 

"I do," said John, then paused before looking at him, "I thought you were supposed to be clever." He chuckled slightly. "Now go on, have some dinner. You look like no one takes care of you."

 

Sherlock, blushed, then chuckled.

"I just..." The detective had never felt so happy. He picked up a spoonful of the gravy-soaked potatoes and dug in, a little overwhelmed by the intensely buttery flavor it gave off

"Are you eating? You look as though you've lost quite a bit of weight, John." Sherlock nearly cooed, taking his blogger's hand.

 

"I'll have whatever's left. I ate while you were in your room," John said, smiling. He settled down beside Sherlock, watching raptly each movement of the fork. He wet his lips.

"And I'm fine. It's just because I've been ill." He flinched at Sherlock's touch but then turned his hand over to hold the detective's hand properly.

 

"Alright, if you say so," the detective smiled, taking a small bite of pork chop, again tasting heavy, fatty flavors. Sherlock grimaced, but swallowed the piece down. He searched about for a drink, something to clear the flavor out of his mouth.

 

John slid a glass of milk to Sherlock, it was thick, the full fat mixed with cream.

"Here, drink up."

 

Sherlock smiled, uncomfortably, and took a sip. He coughed, choking a bit on just how...rich everything was.

"This is all a bit...heavy, John," Sherlock noted, trying not to sound insulting.

 

John took a sip, finding it tasteless. Still, he lied. "Seems alright to me. Probably just because you're not used to eating much." He smiled and leaned a bit closer. "Come on, for me, love?"

He watched Sherlock for a reaction. The information he'd gleaned from the inside of the doctor's skull seemed to indicate it would help. That was an odd thought. John shook his head, but then fetched back a glowing smile.

 

Sherlock blushed bright at the proclamation, going a bit gooey-eyed. He gulped down the milk, and took a few more spoonfuls of buttery, gravy-laden potatoes. It all tasted... revolting. Sherlock's body was used to plain foods, and the sudden influx of calories and heavy, fatty foodstuffs was completely overwhelming. His entire body was telling him to stop eating and run away. But...John had made this. John who...who… _loved_ him. He took another scoop, holding it out to John's lips. Sherlock smiled, playfully

 

John watched in something close to rapture as Sherlock drank down the milk. He leaned in closer still, trying to gauge the man's progress. Oh how wonderful it all looked. Thick and fattening, real, flavorful. He huffed softly, then found food in front of his lips. He could almost forget that it would taste of nothing. He took a tiny bit of it, then felt his stomach clench painfully as the stuff turned to tasteless paste in his mouth. He pulled back.

"Oh no, that's for you, Sherlock. I'm just fine."

 

Sherlock looked a little hurt, nervous, afraid he'd done something wrong.

"Oh I was...just trying to be... flirty," he said, a little sadly, taking the rest of the scoop into his mouth. He finished up the potatoes, and another glass of cream, before burping, his tummy gurgling uncomfortably.

"John I... thank you but I really can't eat another bite. It's all too rich. I...appreciate it, though." Sherlock smiled, taking his blogger's hand once again, reveling in the touch.

 

"That's fine, you've been so very good for me tonight." John murmured, part of him roaring to demand more... But no. Not yet.

He lifted Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it. "Thank you."

 

Sherlock felt all the air rush out of him, and he turned bright red from head to toe

"Well I...I love you, John. I have since the moment I saw you. You're my entire world" He smiled, softly, looking down, too nervous to look at his blogger's face.

 

John smiled, too, managing to conceal a cruel edge.

"And you are mine," he answered simply. He moved in closer, his hand slipping to Sherlock's belly and rubbing it slowly. "I love you so very much."

 

Sherlock squirmed lightly under the touch, taking John's hand and moving it off his full, but flat middle. He held the doctor's hand for a moment, just taking in the scene.

"I've...I've waited so, very long to hear you say that." He said, his voice breaking slightly.

 

"Well, thank god you don't have to wait any longer then," said John with a huff of laughter. His eyes hardened however. But he could be patient. He allowed Sherlock to have his moment.

 

"I...I'm so happy, John," Sherlock said, a few tears running down his face, "I've waited what feels like a lifetime to find you, and...and I'm just so very _happy_ I did." Sherlock threw his arms around John's neck, bringing them close.

 

John stiffened, but knew he had to play along. That tum was deliciously close. He let his hand slip down to it again, carefully mapping it, pondering how it might grow. The other encircled Sherlock's shoulders warmly enough and he smiled.

"And you say I'm the romantic one," he murmured, taking a risk and probing for what John would say in this situation. That was odd... he'd need to be careful. The doctor was fighting now.

 

Sherlock chuckled, squeezing a bit, "When did I say that! You enjoy aggressively flirting with women you never sleep with, but...but you always came home to me...or I ruined your dates." Sherlock laughed, letting go, but hanging onto John's hands.

 

"Anytime you critique my blog posts," John replied, grinning toothily. This was a dangerous path. He needed a conversation he could improvise in without drawing on his memories. "Exactly, I came home. Not so observant now, are you? My detective?"

 

"I guess I just never realized," Sherlock said, giggling, leaning his head until it rested in the crook of John's neck, "And your blog is utterly devoid of facts and filled with overly dramatic tellings of just what an arse I am." Sherlock joked, at his own expense, lost in the happiness he was feeling.

"You remember our first case?" Sherlock said, quietly.

 

"Course I do," John replied, grinning and choosing to risk a kiss to Sherlock's forehead rather than another look back just now. John seemed to be rousing himself for an attempt at control.

 

Sherlock blushed bright red, feeling warm and bubbly, "You just kept saying how...wonderful I was. And then, in the end you..." Sherlock looked at John reverently, "You barely knew me, but...but you must've felt it to. That's why you did it. You _loved_ me." Sherlock murmured, looking John right in the eye.

 

"Yeah," John replied, smiling. He met the man's eyes. He had loved him then. When he had been so afraid, so afraid he might lose him, this man who had walked into his life, swept him away and saved him without ever kno-

"Sherlock? You-you have to listen."

He groaned and turned away.

 

Sherlock grew a little concerned.

"Listen to what, John?" He said, squeezing his blogger's hands.

 

"Listen... listen to me," John grunted, still doubled over. He pulled his hands from Sherlock's fingers to clutch his head.

"Listen to me when I tell you to eat. Properly. You've got to remember to...No." His head felt like it was on fire. That damn spirit of his...

 

"John? John?!" Sherlock said, confused and afraid, jumping up so he could then kneels in front of his true love. He tried to get on a level that he could look into John's eyes.

"Are you alright? Maybe we should get you to a hospital!" he noted, nervously

 

"No... no, must have just been... something didn't agree with me," John huffed, closing his eyes as they grew dark. He bared his teeth and looked away from Sherlock.

"I-I need to..."

"V-vatican-vatican c-cameos," he choked out and doubled over, falling to the floor.

 

Sherlock drew back, concerned. "Oh God, John!" the detective had no idea what to do, that warm, fuzzy feeling long-gone. He searched for his phone, but then turned back

"W-what did you say?" His heart sank in his chest. Something was...something had to be wrong.

 

"N-nothing. It was nothing," John said, uncurling to lay on his back, he pulled himself up to sit, then stood, supporting himself against the chair.

"I-I'm fine. No need to call anyone. We're fine, I'm fine. It's all fine." He grinned, then winced again. "Come on, want to watch a bit of crap telly on the sofa?" He smiled and held out a hand.

 

Something was wrong, Sherlock could feel it.

"I'll… I'll give Greg a quick text, and maybe that woman you work for, let her know you aren't feeling well," Sherlock looked at the hand, longingly, but wandered off to his room, alone and confused.

 

"Sherlock. That wouldn't be... clever of you," John said, tottering to the man's doorway. He glared at him, then shifted back to a sad neglected expression. "Don't... don't you want me?"

 

Sherlock was wary, but his heart fluttered.

"Oh… oh John of course." he wanted to cross, to wrap the man in his arms. "But... but if you aren't feeling well, Greg and what's-her-name should know," he smiled, "Plus I'd... like to go out for drinks with Greg, clear the air." Sherlock smiled

 

"Drinks with Greg?" John repeated. He frowned at Sherlock, then looked furious. "What as revenge? I should have known... I should have known you didn't mean a word!" He turned on his heel and walked a few steps away.

 

Sherlock looked panicked.

"W-what?! John! John no!" He rushed toward the doctor, arms open, eyes sad.

"G-greg's a friend! He just needs to know I'm not upset with him! John I love you! I love you more than anything! Please!" Sherlock pleaded.

 

"Then stay here," John murmured, looking suddenly sultry as he turned around and wrapped his arms around the detective, pressing their middles together. "I'm loads more fun, promise. Greg can wait. Stay."

 

Sherlock stuttered, his entire body going red. "O-Oh well I uh," he stammered.

 

"Good," John purred, giving his detective a gentle squeeze. "Let's have some ice cream and watch telly while we lay on the sofa. You'd like that. I know you would."

"Well I'm not sure I need ice-"

 

John grasped Sherlock's jaw, bringing him tantalizingly close.

"I'm a doctor. I know exactly what you need. Come on." He guided Sherlock towards the sofa and then went to the kitchen.

 

Sherlock flushed crimson, unable to entirely speak, he simply settled down on the sofa and waited for his...his _lover_ to return.

 

John created a beautiful sundae, then brought it to his waiting detective.

"Here you are, just what the doctor ordered," said John, grinning and scooping up a delightful bite for Sherlock. He scooted close to the other man on the sofa.

 

Sherlock held his mouth open, blushing, his tummy gurgling in rebellion. But John was trying to be sweet, clearly, a little treat on the sofa with telly, all very normal.

 

John smiled, switched on the tv, and deposited the cool treat between Sherlock's lips.

"That's a good boy," he cooed, leaning in to kiss the man's cheek before offering him more and more.

 

Sherlock blushed bright, giggling, unsure of just how full he was as the bites came faster and fast, his flat, full stomach bowing outward, rounding being his tight, white shirt. With three bites left, Sherlock looked a bit green.

"J-John I *hiccup* I don't feel well." Sherlock said, his vision swimming a bit.

 

"Shh, it's okay. You did well. So well," John murmured, caressing the man's belly with wonderment. "Such good progress," he breathed.

 

Sherlock let out a loud, wet belch and groaned, his tummy aching. He moved John's hand away, feeling embarrassed.

"N-no," he said, drowsily

 

"No?" John hissed, a disturbing sort of smile sneaking over his mouth. "What do you mean? Don't you like when I touch you, love?" He rubbed lightly at Sherlock's belly again.

 

"N-n-no!" Sherlock said, a little louder, moving the man's hand away again

 

John glowered darkly for a moment. "Fine," he huffed, withdrawing and taking the nearly emptied bowl with him as he went to the kitchen to wash up.

 

Sherlock hiccuped again, groaning uncomfortably. He laid down on the sofa, too stuffed to even waddle back to his own room. The detective's breath rapidly became heavy, and he soon found himself asleep.

 

John wandered in to watch Sherlock sleep for a time, hardly breathing. His... his Sherlock. He would never escape him now. He smirked and went to rest in John's room for the night.


	6. Omelet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to heed the nagging feeling that something isn't quite right with his John.

As the days went on, John was growing in influence. Sherlock was improving. Taking the detective's heart proved to have been the way to the man's stomach. He was less likely to deny himself the sustenance that John laid before him. He coaxed bite after bite, fatty meal after caloric feast into the detective, delighted as the man swelled.

And of course Greg was making progress too. He was so very hungry, John understood. His own hunger was so great and so he made sure his favorite DI had a ready supply of doughnuts and dinners, that he had new trousers when the old grew too tight so that he wasn't made aware.

But John was still so hungry. He watched the two humans feed and grow from the excess as he starved and dwindled...

More. There should be more. The hunger hurt him. He cooked lavish dishes to smell them, but always they were tasteless and passed on to one of his pets.

 

Sherlock awoke groggily, his system not running as fast as it once had, all clogged with butter and salt. He stretched, moving to sit on the edge of his bed, feeling light disgust as his round, soft, smooth middle found a resting place on his thick, creamy thighs. The detective sighed, easily grabbing handfuls of the plump flesh. He'd filled out quickly. A nearly starving body plus thousands of calories equaled a rapidly ballooning detective.

The detective stood, feeling his round, globe-like bottom bounce at the movement. He waddled, flat out _waddled_ , toward the kitchen, dreading another morning of waffles and butter or eggs and bacon - or God forbid both.

One hand scratched at the large lip of fat hanging over his pajama bottoms, the other nervously squeezed at a thick, plush love handle. He wandered up behind his now skeletal blogger, wrapping his arms around the man he loved, letting the now tiny, thin man sink into him.

"Good morning, my darling," he said, kissing the top of his lover's head.

 

John groaned and leaned back into Sherlock, almost able to imagine that flab on his own frame instead. All that flesh and excess.

"Oh, mm-morning, love," he rumbled, then grinned. "I thought ham and cheese omelets should suit us today."

 

"In the mood the eat something today?" Sherlock asked, concerned, counting his lover's ribs through his cuddly jumper.

"I... I think I'll just stick with fruit, if it's all the same to you. I've been... well, I'm sure you've noticed," Sherlock said, squashing his tummy a bit further into his lover's back.

 

"I'm still feeling a bit under the weather, but come on, can't leave these golden beauties to go to waste," said John cheerfully, plating the last one and handing it to his detective. "Eat up. You need your strength, Sherlock."

 

"John I'm..." Sherlock trailed off, setting the plate down and spinning his lover to face him, "I'm at least thirty pounds overweight, and that was just the last time I weighed myself!" he said, eyes innocent and earnest.

"I realize partners feed each other up but... this is ridiculous!" Sherlock said, squeezing at the sides of his prominent tummy, making the fat jiggle and shake.

"And you!" he added, worry in his voice, "You're all skin and bones! You've lost nearly that amount! I'm _worried_ , John, and I love you. Please, please eat." Sherlock echoed, staring into his lovers eyes.

 

John ducked his head, nuzzling it into his lover's softening chest.

"I'll be fine. I am fine, I'm not about to waste away," he murmured, drawing his arms around Sherlock, wanting to leech on the warmth that was stored there.

God, he was so hungry, always so hungry.

"Please eat," John breathed, his face still buried in the larger man's chest as his own body trembled with shivers.

 

Sherlock rubbed soft, smooth hands up and down his lovers emaciated back, planting a kiss on the top of his head again. He just held him for a while, feeling all the man's bones press into his own soft flesh, his lover's face pillowed by his broad, soft chest.

"You _are_ wasting away," Sherlock murmured, "I miss my strong soldier. _I'm_ supposed to be the thin one, remember?" he joked, easing John to sit in his lap by the table.

 

John just tilted his head, looking up at Sherlock with dazed, sunken, almost cloudy eyes. He smiled and reached up to slowly stroke his lover's jawline with boney fingers.

"I'll eat later. You enjoy," he murmured, closing his eyes peacefully. He felt weak with hunger. "We should have Greg over again soon."

 

Sherlock simply wrapped an arm around his true love's tiny waist, letting him rest against his fat belly.

"We had Greg over last night!" Sherlock chuckled, though he didn't mind, the detective was quite... easy to look at, and equally as easy to get along with. Greg had been coming over quite frequently, almost every evening, in fact. The detective stabbed at his omelet, shoveling in a few forkfuls before offering one to John.

"Please? For me?" he asked, smiling.

 

John groaned. "Oh, love, I don't think I can right now," he murmured. "You eat..."

He smiled up at Sherlock. Then his head twinged and he ducked back into the man's chest.

 

Sherlock frowned, rubbing his lover's back a bit more, planting small, light kisses on his hair. He couldn't even remember the last time John had eaten, and here he was swelling up like a prized hog. Sherlock felt deep guilt, setting his fork down and wrapping plump arms around his John. Where was his strong solider? Or the cuddly man he'd fallen in love with? Sherlock felt tears form in his eyes.

"I love you," Sherlock murmured.

 

"I love you too," John replied, but his tone was dull and barely there. He stared vacantly as Sherlock hugged him.

"Love you," the frail doctor mumbled, then straightened again.

"You aren't eating," he said, his tone coming in silkier and more firmly.

 

Sherlock stared heartbrokenly at his lover. He didn't know what to do.

"No," he said, softly.

"How can I eat, seeing you like this?" Sherlock asked, looking at John earnestly.

 

John's eyes met Sherlock's and for once they looked brighter, though pained.

"Sherlock... Sherlock, I'm, I'm so hungry. You... need to. I need to."

 

Sherlock grasped his lover's hands.

"I know, John, I know! I need to what? Tell me!" he said, a little desperately. John had been acting so strange, and these flickers of pure John-ness are what Sherlock hoped and prayed for.

 

John squeezed his eyes closed, shuddering a moment. "V-vatican... I. You know that! I told you!"

"Sherlock, please! Hel-have some more." He went stock still within a second, his gaze turning icy again as he stared at the detective, his face gaunt and expressionless.

 

He'd said it again. The code word they only used in times of trouble, but why?

Perhaps...No it was insane.

"There's just so much here!" Sherlock said, feigning excitement, "Why don't I give Greg a ring? I know there's some recipes you've been wanting to try, and I certainly wouldn't mind an eating partner." Sherlock beamed, scooping up another forkful of egg and popping it into his mouth with a pleased groan.

 

"Yes... Yes good plan. I know. I need to keep you hungry boys fed," John purred happily, stroking Sherlock's jaw lovingly as he chewed. "Yes, you eat. Call Greg. I'll go find the ingredients I need."

 

Sherlock smiled, giving those fingers a kiss, taking another large forkful of omelet while he waited for John to leave.

 

John opened the fridge, then each of the cabinets methodically. He hummed, then then grinned at Sherlock and went to go to Tesco.

 

Sherlock scrambled up as John went out the door, flying across the flat and dialing Greg as quickly as he could.

 

Greg picked up his mobile as it rang. He groaned as he saw the ID. No really. After the ungodly amount of fantastic homemade chips he had consumed the night before... he really wasn't eager to pay 221 B a visit again so soon.

He huffed as he sat up, his wide soft belly scrunching and pooching into his lap. He yawned and answered despite his misgivings.

"Hello?"

 

"Greg!" Sherlock shouted into the phone, "I don't know how much time I've got, but something _very_ wrong with John. I need you to look over the files of the case we took several weeks ago, and maybe..."

"Bring some holy water," Sherlock paced the floor anxiously, wondering exactly what he should do. Keep playing dumb? It could work, but John would quickly starve. Attempt to exorcise the demon? Was there a demon? It... made sense on some level. Kind of. Perhaps not.

Call whatever had John out into the open? Another option.

But all these hung on whether Lestrade hung up. They'd become... closer in the past few weeks. He'd come to look upon the man as more of a confidant than ever, someone... someone very important in his life.

 

"Sorry what? Holy water?" spluttered Greg, "Sherlock, what are you on about? Is everything alright?" His tone immediately became warmer and more patient as he ended his questions.

 

"I... I don't know. It's just... John won't eat. Anything. At all. And he's becoming obsessed with...well everyone else eating, as you've experienced." Sherlock laid a hand on his bulging tummy.

"And I... just observing him since that case. He seems...different. Saying things he wouldn't say, getting...violent," Sherlock said, in a smaller voice, "And today. Today he told me our word, _our_ word, Greg. The one we use when we're in trouble, then pretended he hadn't. Like he was two different people!" Sherlock sat down on the sofa, his wide bottom spreading out beneath him, emotions starting to eat him up.

"And I just-" Sherlock's voice broke, "I've been too busy stuffing my horrid, fat face and pretending that everything was ok to even see it." He sniffled, a few tears falling. "I just wanted us to be _happy_ Greg, and I let it block out every one of my instincts, of the one thing I'm good at."

 

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Greg murmured, noting the distress in the lad's voice, "Sherlock, we'll get this worked out. I know he had been a bit... out of it. But isn't demonic possession a little... unlikely?" He scratched his own bulging middle. Something had gotten rather odd.

 

"I know, I know, it's just. Why else would he...Greg you don't see his _eyes_. Sometimes they're just so full and perfect and other times I... I know he's faking. I know he... I know he doesn't really love me." The detective sobbed. "And now I'm _fat_ and _ugly_ and I'm just so scared Greg."

 

"Oh Sherlock, come on, you're gorgeous! Just calm down, I'll bring you the file. Is John out? Look if he is... if he is violent or abusing you, you can come stay with me alright?" said Greg, now getting off of his bed and finding his shoes.

"I hate to think something like that of John, but you know him best. And you don't deserve to be harmed, Sherlock. Not by anyone," Greg said firmly, "Now, should I come to you or do you need out?"

 

"I… n-no I… He just... he just gets upset sometimes, that's all. I make him angry and...and I should know better," Sherlock said quickly.

"I… I must've just panicked. F-forget I said anything, Greg," Sherlock said, sniffling lightly, quickly hanging up. He... he didn't want to get John in trouble. All his usual thoughts that were usually blocked by love were now overwhelmed by fear. John would be upset, John wouldn't love him anymore.

 

"Sherlock that's not-" Greg began, but then sighed as Sherlock hung up. He finished putting on his shoes and found his keys before driving to the Yard to find the correct file. It didn't sound good at the very least. Perhaps there was some truth to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade, John - Aris
> 
> Sherlock - FatlocknDomJohn


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade take action... but might it be too late?

Sherlock cuddled on the couch for a moment, not entirely sure when John would be back. He felt his sides and belly turns to rolls are he moved about, feeling pure hatred for what he'd let himself become.

 

Greg located the file, flicked through it and frowned. Then he hurried to 221 B. He rang the doorbell nervously, hoping that John wasn't around. He hadn't been sure how to go about the holy water, but the file had something about that.

 

Sherlock froze when he heard the doorbell, terrified for a moment it might be John. But the rational part of his brain concluded that John wouldn't do that. The teary-eyed detective rushed to the door, throwing it open.

"Hey, you hung up but I thought you might still be needing that file," said Greg, smiling and holding it up. He still tended to forget how big Sherlock had gotten, but he recognized that look anywhere. He automatically opened his arms, welcoming Sherlock and hugging him warmly.

 

Sherlock ignored the file for a moment, simply wrapping his arms around the chubby man and squeezing.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, not sure why.

 

"Hey, there's nothing to be sorry about," Greg replied, giving Sherlock a squeeze. "You're alright. Come on, let's have a look. You'll be alright."

 

Feeling strangely safe, Sherlock lets loose, crying fully, letting out wracked sobs. "I just... his _eyes_ , Greg. I can just see when he's faking it and I pretend it's not there."

He snuggled deeper into the Inspector's shoulder before pulling back, embarrassed.

"I'm..." he trailed off, moving to the couch, flushing with shame.

 

"No need. I'm here for you, mate. You know that," Greg said as he gave him a confident grin, trying to bolster Sherlock back into himself. Then he opened the file and spread it out on the table.

"Now, I didn't know how to go about the holy water, but there's a recipe here," he pointed to a scrap of paper with some hurried scribbles. "We could give that a go. I have a crucifix on my necklace. It's this incantation. There's a load of other mumbo jumbo... what do you think?"

It all felt a bit mad, but if he could help Sherlock, then it was worth it.

 

"It… it all sounds insane, Greg," Sherlock said, leaning onto his plump companion.

 

"Yeah, but someone believed in it. And if you don't think that's John you're sleeping next to, then some part of this must be honest," said Greg. Part of him really hoped that was the case. He'd liked John, trusted him. And he'd seen how happy he made Sherlock as well.

"Do you know Latin? There's this incantation here... and there were these markings scribbled all over the floor..." He pointed to the pentagrams.

 

"I..." Sherlock trailed off, "What if I'm right?" he said, quietly, looking at Greg, "What if I'm right, and I trust what my instincts told me that first night and we expel the demon and..."

Sherlock looked away from Greg, lower lip quivering

"And John doesn't love me, anymore."

 

Greg put a hand on Sherlock's thickened shoulder, rubbing it gently.

"He might. He might not. He's a good bloke, John. And that's who you love. Not something that's pretending to be him and only playing with your emotions. You don't want that do you?" he asked, voice as gentle as his touch.

 

Sherlock leaned in, wrapping his plump arms as far as they would go around the other man's waist.

"I...it was nice, while I could convince myself," Sherlock said, "It was nice to have someone who told me they loved me." He sighed, then swallowed down another sob.

"I... I speak Latin," he said, pulling himself away from Greg, but not wanting to.

 

"Great, you'll be able to pronounce what all this is then," said Greg, smiling encouragingly and passing the paper over. He looked at the detective for a long time.

"There are people that love and care about you, Sherlock. You're important. And not just because of what you do to solve crimes."

 

Sherlock stared down at the paper, looking it over intensely.

"I love you too...Gavin," he smiled, "Who else would come over an exorcise a demon at a moment's notice?" He looked up, meeting the detective inspector's eyes with warmth.

 

"Ga- Oh, yeah of course. You're like the bratty son I never had," Greg chuckled, giving the detective's fleshy side a poke, and smiling back just as warmly. There was a creak as a door opened downstairs and he jumped. "Perhaps we ought to plan this out..."

 

Sherlock's blood ran cold.

"Draw the pattern, I'll... distract him." Sherlock bounded down the hall

 

Greg nodded, then began scrambling around for some means of marking the floor. At least it was wood...

 

Sherlock huffed, catching sight of John and putting on an excited face, picking up his skeletal boyfriend in a bear hug.

 

"Jawn!"

John chuckled as Sherlock scooped him up, then groaned as he felt all that soft fat against him. Oh if only he could melt into him...

"Careful, love. Don't want to crush the shopping," John purred.

 

"More like Ill crush _you_ , skinny bones!" the detective laughed, smothering the other man's face with kisses.

 

There was a clatter from upstairs and John's head shot up.

"Is someone here?"

 

Sherlock moved toward the wall, let his fat tummy and soft chest squash his small… possibly demonic lover.

"I invited Greg over, remember?" Sherlock beamed, dipping his head to nibble on John's neck.

 

"Oh, he's already here?" John asked, unresponsive to Sherlock's kissing, still gazing at the ceiling.

"I thought I had said 'for dinner,'" he murmured, suddenly looking directly back at Sherlock. He cocked his head and grabbed hard handfuls of the detective's flab.

"What have you two been getting up to, hm?" he growled, eyes boring into Sherlock's and darkening.

 

Sherlock let out a small cry, yanking his head back. "Y-you didn't, Jawn, you said that you were going to try out some new recipes and-" Sherlock winced as unnaturally strong fingers dug into his sides. "A-and I thought that meant lunch too! I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Sherlock said, rapidly, "W-we've just been talking John! G-greg had a few cases he wanted looked over an-" Sherlock let out another small yelp, "P-please Jawn, you're hurting me!"

 

"Hmm," John hummed, looking up at the ceiling again. He let go of Sherlock, shunting him out of the way with hardly a glance

"Well, how rude of us to leave a guest unattended. Bring the shopping would you," said John, then mounted the stairs and climbed up to 221B.

"Hello?" John called, a smile plastered on his face as he stepped inside.

 

"Hey, John," said Greg, smiling and coming out of the kitchen. "Sorry, I got a bit peckish, hope you don't mind I helped myself to a couple biscuits. They're fantastic."

 

"Not at all," said John, almost purring at the sight. His eyes tracked down to the man's middle. "Sorry, I didn't expect you to be here yet. I can prepare some lunch if you like."

 

"Terrific," Greg said enthusiastically, "Sorry, I'm just going to pop to the loo." He sidled past John and closed the door behind him. There was the sound of running water.

 

Sherlock picked up the remainder of the groceries, holding the frozens against his bruising sides, sides that held several slightly older wounds as well, and moved them upstairs to the kitchen.

His breath came in small shudders, lower lip quivering. He placed the groceries down, then waddled over the couch, settling down, wide bottom spreading out beneath him.

 

John methodically picked up the groceries as Sherlock brought them and put them all away, then he began digging around for ingredients. There was a sizzle as something hit a frying pan.

 

Greg stepped out of the loo. He slipped Sherlock a bottle of water with a meaningful look. It could be hidden here in the sofa, or perhaps they were better off starting.

"It's under the rug," he muttered, nodding to the one laying on the floor. The case file was nowhere in sight.

 

Sherlock nodded, stashing the bottle away, they would need to get "John" into that circle before anything real could be done.

 

"Run out of things to talk about have you?" John called from the kitchen.

 

Greg chuckled, "Well, cases were solved. Sherlock hates sport, need to dig a bit deeper for topics." He glanced at the detective, noting his distress. He placed a hand on the man's knee.

 

The detective looked at Greg with tired eyes after the comforting gesture, hesitantly lifting his shirt up enough to expose a thoroughly bruised, sensitive side.

 

Greg's look hardened for a moment, then softened as his eyes traveled up to Sherlock's face. He gave the man's knee a gentle and supportive squeeze.

"So, heard from Molly lately?" Greg asked mildly over the sounds of cooking in the kitchen.

 

"She's got some new boyfriend, or girlfriend, or... cat. I can't remember, but she seemed excited the last time we spoke." Sherlock responded, "But arguably that was...a while ago." He hadn't left the house much since John had... and Greg was the only person he'd really seen.

"John tried out a new recipe for gingerbread... actually five recipes," Sherlock said, with a tight smile, knowing John could overhear nearly everything they said, or at least hear that they were talking, "He really just loves the holidays."

 

"Any of them any good?" Greg asked with a chuckle.

 

"Oh a few of them, I'd say," John replied, walking back into the living room. "Lunch is ready, if you two want to come to the kitchen."

 

Greg stretched and smiled. "Oh, but we're both getting so fat and lazy," he said patting his middle, "Don't you think we could eat in here?"

 

John frowned.

"I... suppose." He turned and went to fetch them.

 

Greg nodded pointedly at the rug. He supposed they'd have their answer soon enough.

 

Sherlock felt glad Greg was taking such charge, the normally bold detective felt... scared. Unsure. His brain unable to truly understand what to do for the first time in a long time.

He figured that he'd know his next move once John reached that carpet. He took Greg's hand for a moment, giving it a firm squeeze before letting go and leaning back into the couch, letting his tummy round out before him.

 

John returned with two plates piled high with chips and two ham and cheese butties apiece. He placed them on the coffee table before each man and grinned hungrily at them.

"There you are, eat up!"

 

"Thanks!" said Greg cheerfully, picking up one of the butties and taking a bite.

John was in place.

"Mind fetching a drink?" Greg asked.

 

John stared at the pair of them, then turned to go back to the kitchen but he couldn't.

"Wha-" he whirled around furiously. "What have you done?" he thundered, snarling and making to lash out at them both but he was stopped again, barely able to move more than a couple feet in either direction.

He roared in frustration. Then his eyes fell on Sherlock. " _You_."

 

The detective's mouth fell open, then formed a small grin.

He'd been right.

He'd been right!

Sherlock laughed, madly for a moment, watching the creature that looked like his John struggle and scream. The curly-haired man rose, letting his height, his confidence, and his _weight_ fill the room, staring the creature down. A cocky grin formed on the detective's face.

" _Me_."

He removed the paper from his back pocket, steadily and slowly reciting the verses before him.

 

The demon, Not-John, howled and gnashed John's teeth, fighting to maintain its purchase within the body.

"Stop!" it screeched, "I will never let go of him, or you or that slovenly inspector! You are MINE!"

 

Greg dove to retrieve the bottle of holy water but the demon saw him.

It yowled and twisted John's hand into a fist, then made to throw something, causing the coffee table to slam across the room. Greg had the wind knocked out of him as it caught him around the middle and pinned him to the wall.

Not-John, eyes darker than ever turned, snarling at Sherlock.

"He doesn't love you," it roared, falling to John's knees, but smirking at Sherlock none the less. "Never will."

 

Sherlock finished up the next bit of the incantation confidently, standing tall as his belly rounded out before him, but his voice, the last thing the demon would likely ever hear, turned soft

"I know."

 

The demon seemed to wretch within John's body as it crumpled.

"He's still in here, you know. When I leave... he'll die... you..."

It looked up again, that terrible expression gleeful.

Then it choked as Sherlock pronounced the last word, and John's body collapsed against the floor. The electricity flickered. There was a soft sound, like a breath made of shadow. The curtains rustled and then everything was still. Silent.

 

Sherlock stood motionless, terrified to move. His eyes looked over the emaciated body of his blogger, his best friend, his... love.

 

There was a scramble as Greg got up from where he'd been pinned. "I'll call for an ambulance," he said, his voice soft, not daring to look at that body that suddenly seemed so very tiny. He fished out his mobile and began efficiently contacting the right people.

 

Sherlock moved toward the figure, so very lacking in John-ness, no cuddly tummy or soft edges, all hard lines, all bones. He moved his plump arms beneath it, lifted it gently, reverently.

"John?" he whispered. Sherlock stared, stared hard at that body that should've been John, waiting, hoping. His face was blank, a stone.

 

For a long time, there wasn't a breath in John's body. Then the too-apparent ribcage shuddered and he drew in a ragged weak breath, then another.

His lips parted weakly, then his eyelids.

John didn't think he could move an inch, or even think properly. There was a dark shape there, shaped like-

"Sh... erl'ck," he coughed and felt like he we would break into tiny pieces as a result, grimacing. "ah..."

 

"Shh, it's alright," Sherlock murmured, holding John's skeletal frame close, his own breath now shuddering, for a completely different reason. Hot, fat tears rolled down the detective's soft cheeks

"It's okay, it's all going to be okay."

He gazed into those hollow, sunken eyes - seeing the smallest flickers of _his_ John in them again.

"I've got you."

 

"Hm," said John, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Sss... so tired," John mumbled, his eyes closing again, head lolling in Sherlock's arms.

 

Sherlock let out a shuddery breath, using one arm to wipe at tears that wouldn't stop falling.

"I... I need you to stay awake, John, just a little longer, we're going to get you some help, j-just keep your eyes open," Sherlock begged, trying to sound confident.

 

"Come on, let's get him downstairs," Greg said, stepping back in the room, finally allowing himself a look at John. The hurt was almost physical. "Can you carry him yourself?"

 

Sherlock lifted his love as if he weighed nothing.

"Y-yeah, he's...oh Greg he's so light," Sherlock choked. He waddled over to the stairs, soft tummy jiggling against John's bones, one plump arm cradling his head, the other slipped under the back of his knees.

 

John forced his eyes back open. He couldn't really understand why he couldn't just sleep...

But if Sherlock...

Sherlock thought it was important.

He forced himself to focus on his face, watching him weakly. He felt like he was floating.

The ambulance was there not a moment after. John was taken in and given an emergency IV for fluids and life-saving nutrients. He slept for most of the first few days, too weak to remember much of anything or leave the hospital bed.

Sherlock stayed by John's side for the first 48 hours, never leaving, never taking his eyes off his best friend. Greg finally convinced him, once John was in stable condition, to go home and shower, rest. He noticeably avoided saying "eat." There was a long road ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed this! Keep a lookout for a sequel about the boys' recovery. Not to worry, this one might start angsty but ends in delicious fluff.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock was played by FatlocknDomJohn  
> John was played by Aris_Silverfin


End file.
